“THAT FUNNY FEELING”

My not-so-funny rewrite in six verses of Bo Burnham’s song.

Sleeping with the tv on,

sitting on the floor,

someone eating out alone,

muscles that are sore,

grieving alive people,

feeling feeble, getting small,

the emptiness that lingers 

when you’re staring at a wall.

Starving yourself scary thin, 

and gaining back the weight,

coffee cups filled to the brim, 

scars and hearts that ache,

watercolor paintings,

dazy daydreams, driving far,

going to the movies

and forgetting where you are.

Missing your ten year old self,

the curse of the clock,

self help books up on your shelf,

vodka on the rocks,

hating your reflection, 

a collection of dead bugs,

existentialism, 

“God is dead” written on a mug.

Spiraling about your death,

swallowing pills dry,

cemeteries, baby’s breath, 

SSRIs,

tears saved for your pillow,

weeping willow, broken doll,

wanting to mean anything,

to anyone at all.

Lips as dry as bales of hay,

hand rolled cigarettes,

the high price you have to pay 

for all of your regrets, 

a band aid on a deep cut,

eating soup but with a fork, 

puking in your handbag 

in a taxi in New York. 

Scuba diving through your brain

for something left to say,

converse wet with autumn rain,

lovers left at bay,

drowning out your heart beat

on your plane seat with a song,

trying to fit in 

into a place you don’t belong. 

There it is again that funny feeling,

that funny feeling. 

M.L. November ‘24